The one low window and the
door in front were the only openings cut through the solidly-framed
logs. The door was fastened with a heavy wooden bar which reached
across the entire shutter and was held in place by strong iron
staples driven into the heavy door-posts. Above, it was strongly
ceiled, but under the eaves were large openings made by the thick
poles which had been used for rafters. If the owner had been capable
of defense he could hardly have had a castle better adapted for a
desperate and successful struggle than this.
Eliab Hill knew this, and for a moment his face flushed as he saw
the crowd rush towards him, with the vain wish that he might fight
for his life and for his race. He had fully made up his mind to
die at his post. He was not a brave man in one sense of the word.
A cripple never is. Compelled to acknowledge the physical superiority
of others, year after year, he comes at length to regard his own
inferiority as a matter of course, and never thinks of any movement
which partakes of the aggressive. Eliab Hill had procured the
strong bar and heavy staples for his door when first warned by the
Klan, but he had never concocted any scheme of defense. He thought
vaguely, as he saw them coming towards him in the bright moonlight
and in the brighter glow of the burning sanctuary, that with a
good repeating arm he might not only sell his life dearly, but even
repel the attack.
Pages:
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333